Nightsong, the ancestral seat of House Caron, rose black and jagged against the red-streaked sky.
Set in the Dornish Marches, southwest of the Stormlands, the castle guarded the northern mouth of Prince's Pass, where the Red Mountains narrowed into stone jaws. For centuries, it had stood as a shield against Dorne, its towers watching the winding roads that led south into heat and sand.
A shadow passed over the battlements.
With a thunder of wings, Caraxes descended from the sky, his long, serpentine body coiling as he landed beyond the outer walls. The Blood Wyrm's scales glimmered darkly in the fading light, steam hissing from his nostrils as he folded his wings.
Prince Daemon Targaryen dismounted without ceremony.
Royce Caron, Lord of Nightsong, was already waiting in the yard. He bowed, armor creaking as he straightened, his eyes sharp with anticipation.
"Your Highness," Royce said, inclining his head. "What word from Wyl City?"
Wyl City, seat of House Wyl, lay deep along the Boneway, the ancient road cutting through the Red Mountains. Known formally as the Stone Road, it was the principal artery linking Dorne to the Stormlands. Every invasion, every retreat, every bloody stand had passed through that narrow corridor of stone.
Daemon's expression darkened.
"It is… unclear," he said at last.
Royce frowned, fingers tightening around the pommel of his sword.
House Wyl had long been a thorn in the side of the Dornish Marches. Their castle was riddled with tunnels and caverns carved deep into the mountain itself, a warren of stone designed to swallow armies whole. During the First Dornish War, even Balerion's fire had failed to smoke them out. When Aegon the Conqueror burned their stronghold, the Wyls had simply vanished underground and waited for the flames to pass.
Royce's mouth curved into a hard smile. "Then why not strike Prince's Pass directly? With a hundred and fifty thousand men, even a single spit from each would drown the Dornish in their sand."
Daemon turned slowly to face him.
His violet eyes were cold.
"This war is commanded by me," he said, his voice low and edged with iron. "Not by you, Lord Caron."
The words fell like a blade between them.
For a second, Royce's jaw tightened, disappointment flashing across his face. Then he smoothed his expression and dipped his head again.
"As you say, Your Highness."
There would be other chances. Royce knew it. Dorne always offered them.
Daemon exhaled sharply through his nose. Irritation pricked at him. With a brief gesture, he made it clear that Royce was dismissed. The lord of Nightsong obeyed without another word.
Daemon crossed the yard and entered the solar.
Inside, Princess Rhaenyra sat beside a long table, a book open before her. Young Joffrey stood at her side, brow furrowed in concentration as he sounded out the words. A Maester observed quietly from the corner, hands folded into his sleeves.
Daemon lowered himself onto a bench beside them. The tension had not yet left his shoulders.
Rhaenyra glanced at him, reading his mood at once. Her voice softened. "What troubles you?"
He leaned back, rubbing his brow with two fingers. "Dorne has not done what we expected."
Joffrey looked up, sensing the change, but Rhaenyra placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, urging him back to the page.
"When our banners marched, I thought they would gather their strength," Daemon continued. "Form a single host. Give me and Rhaenys a target worthy of dragonfire."
He let out a short, humorless breath. "Instead, they have scattered."
Rhaenyra's lips pressed together.
"They have abandoned Prince's Pass and the Boneway entirely," Daemon said. "Some towns stand empty. Others are stripped of grain and livestock."
Guerrilla war, then. The old Dornish way.
The same tactics they had used against Aegon himself.
Rhaenyra straightened, her voice firm. "Then we take Sunspear."
The Maester's eyes flickered up, but he said nothing.
"If we seize their capital," she continued, "the victory will be undeniable. After that, the rest can be settled."
Daemon studied her for a long moment. There was fire in her gaze, steady and unflinching.
"At dawn," he said at last. "We march for Sunspear."
It was the most direct course. Perhaps the only one left.
Yet he knew the cost.
Along the march, Dornish riders would harry their flanks. Supply lines would be cut. Men would die without ever seeing a battlefield. A host of a hundred and fifty thousand devoured coin and grain alike, and the obligation of vassals lasted only three months.
After that, the burden would fall upon the Iron Throne.
Even with the royal treasury at its fullest, it could not sustain a host of one hundred and fifty thousand men for a year, nor even half of one.
The following morning, the banners were raised.
The great host divided as ordered.
Prince Daemon Targaryen took the first column himself, leading his men south through Prince's Pass, where the mountains closed like a clenched fist and the air smelled of dust and old blood.
The second army marched eastward along the Stone Road. Lord Corlys Velaryon commanded that host, its path set first toward Wyl City and then onward to Yronwood, the seat of House Yronwood.
House Yronwood was no minor Dornish lordship.
Second only to House Martell in power and influence, the Yronwoods styled themselves Bloodroyal, Lords of Yronwood, and Wardens of the Stone Road. Their castle stood as the final bastion guarding the Boneway. Every army that sought to pass through the Red Mountains was forced to reckon with it.
Yet though his orders were clear, Corlys did not ride at once.
He lingered in his pavilion, maps spread across the table before him, his hands clenched behind his back. His thoughts were far from Dorne.
They circled instead around Aegon.
Rhaenys entered quietly. She did not speak at first, only watched him, noting the tightness in his jaw, the restless pacing that betrayed his unrest.
"Corlys," she said at last, taking his hand. Her grip was firm, grounding. "You must think carefully."
He stopped.
"I have thought carefully," Corlys replied, turning to face her. His voice was hard, and something unsteady flickered in his eyes. "That whelp thinks he can bend me to his will. I will not give him that satisfaction."
For a moment, the mask slipped. Beneath it lay a flash of something close to madness.
If it came to it, he would simply refuse to sail beyond the Stepstones. Trade with the western cities of Essos alone. Let the shipping lanes choke and rot.
Rhaenys saw the thought as clearly as if he had spoken it aloud.
"I support you," she said evenly. "For now. When Dorne is finished, we will find a way to resolve the Stepstones."
Corlys's expression remained grim. Words were cheap. The losses were not. Every day his ships sat idle, gold bled away.
Aegon was ruthless. Cold. Utterly unafraid of war.
Did he truly not fear mutual ruin? Did he believe Driftmark and Dragonstone could tear each other apart and leave anything standing?
The thought dragged Corlys's mood even lower.
"Hugh," he said suddenly. "He has bound that mud-colored dragon to his will. A full-grown male, near seventy years old. Larger even than Meleys. Has Viserys answered?"
Rhaenys stiffened.
"No," she said after a pause. "I cannot tell what Viserys intends. Should we inform Rhaenyra and Daemon directly?"
Corlys shook his head at once. "No."
His refusal was sharp, final.
"If they learn that Aegon now commands five dragons, they will not sleep again," he said. "Let us see how Viserys responds first."
Rumors were one thing. Confirmation was another.
When Rhaenys had first brought him the truth, Corlys's immediate instinct had been simple. Demand that Viserys order Hugh's death. Reclaim Sheepstealer by royal decree.
But that impulse had not survived reflection.
Hugh's loyalty to Aegon was absolute.
With the rift between the Black and Green factions deepening by the day, Aegon would never cripple himself by allowing a royal command to strip him of such a weapon. A seventy-year-old dragon, larger than Meleys herself, was not something any king could casually discard.
Add to that Sunfyre, Dreamfyre, Vhagar, and Tessarion.
Five dragons.
Four of them titanic beasts, each exceeding fifty meters in length.
Corlys exhaled slowly.
"It is not that I underestimate Viserys," he said at last. "But he lacks the will. Before Aemond claimed Vhagar, perhaps he could have held Aegon in check. Perhaps then, stripping Hugh of his rider's status might have been possible."
He shook his head.
"Now? He has no chance. Not unless he wishes to tear the realm apart. Worse still, he may be forced to restore Hugh's Targaryen name outright, simply to preserve the illusion of royal blood and unity."